


Temporary Madness

by orphan_account



Series: Temporary Madness [1]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, F/M, M/M, Other, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Series, possible two shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4275012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mini series and one-shots under five possible titles, Temporary Madness counting as the first though it may not be chronologically. Mostly Shizaya, pre-relationship, reflections, thoughts, short captions, inspirational writing. Mature because it's not graphic enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything this sized for a very long time so pardon if it does not meet your expectations and feel free to leave your honest opinions and suggestions. Thank you.

The sound of a gunshot jolts him awake, heart hammering in his chest. Only, there is no gun, not really. A memory of its dreadful explosive sound, a violent cracking of dense air is all there is as his eyes rapidly scan his surroundings. Panic washes over him like a cold shower, freezing his blood. He’s trying to breathe, but he feels like he’s drowning and he can’t stop from gulping large quantities of air to the point of crying in overall panic.

 

He feels like he’s going mad – the walls are suddenly moving and coming uncomfortably close for his liking – and in that moment he can’t remain still, his bed sheets are threatening to wrap around him and strangle him in the wee hours of the morning.

 

He’s on the rooftop of his building; how he got there is and remains a mystery for he has no recollection of his actions after falling out his bed unceremoniously ungraceful.

 

The cold air hits his cold damp skin and for all the uncomfortable bites, it makes – _forces_ – his mind to clear and his surroundings to stop spinning. The nightly sounds of the city sooth his tired mind and the wave of black lashing panic slowly ebbs into the dark corner from whence it came, but the anxiousness remains twitching like a sore open wound.

 

Never in his life did he imagine... _this_.

 

Never in his life did he imagine... _that_.

 

A flash of silver, the unnerving crack of air and that look – _dear God, that look_.

 

His tired eyes sting as he closes them as if that could shield him from an onslaught of memories flashing and he can’t make them stop.

 

Why?

 

Why is this plaguing him at some god forsaken hour on a week day when he has work in just a few hours and should be asleep without a care in the world? Why is it plaguing him in the first place? Did he not dream about that for years? To be rid of any sources of annoyance so he and his close to non-existent temper could live in peace? So what-

 

He knew what, or more like, his deep subconscious knew. These nightmares will continue plaguing him, rob him of his sleep and inner peace he had little of to begin with, until he just copes with it.

 

Or so he tells himself.

 

There is another problem, a much deeper one. The fact that he _has already coped with it_ , but does not – cannot – will not – admit it.

 

He absolutely refuses to and this old familiar feeling in a new and shiny and _unbearable_ form comes knocking down the doors of his sanity, unleashing all the nightmarish memories he tired bury somewhere – anywhere – where it can’t reach him.

 

Oh, yes, his guilt is there and very real and is out to get him and drown him in all the misery he possesses.

 

But he still refuses to feel any guilt for he thinks there is no reason to feel it.

 

After all;

 

_He is the one who wanted him dead._

 

Tom is five seconds away from putting him on leave of absence until he gets better the moment he lays eyes on him. He has dark circles under his eyes, evident even through his sunglasses. Though, no matter how much he wants to, Shizuo refuses to function, even less to actually tell him what’s so wrong, so broken?

 

His boss eventually calls up the urban legend, the Black Rider, to see if she can get any response from him. Needless to say, her reaction is even worse. She immediately calls up Shinra, him being a doctor and all, and he also shows up, not the least bit happy his beloved is asking about other men (even if they are Shizuo) but all traces of goofiness are erased when he sees the sorry state Heiwajima Shizuo is in.

 

He is not a psychologist, not remotely, but he can see that there is nothing physically wrong with him. His diagnosis is shock. All they can do is wait until Shizuo wraps his head around whatever it is that has him.

 

And, so, for a few weeks, Heiwajima Shizuo remains an emotionless walking mental corpse. He forgets his wallet somewhere, his house keys, even his cell phone once and Tom offers to keep those things by him when they are on a stroll. Shizuo has no objections to that. Shizuo has no objection to anything, really.

 

That sorry state continues for another few weeks and Celty is close to hurl her own horse at him when he finally snaps out of it.

 

It happens unexpectedly and he later says it was as if something pulled him out of dark and murky waters he had been floating about directionless.

 

It was the sound of a crash – a car crash.

 

Nothing major, no one got hurt. Just a few adult rated words out of shock and adrenaline fly through the air. A bumper cracked; a light or two broken, nothing the participants can’t solve among themselves when they calm down.

 

Celty sighs and turns her attention to Shizuo only to receive another shock.

 

The crack resounded in him like electricity passing, violently jolting him. His sunglasses slide down his nose to reveal his mocha eyes wide and clearing, as if he just witnessed a wonder of sorts. Not ten second pass and those eyes are filled with tears that fall freely down his cheeks and he wipes them, not really sure what’s going on.

 

Celty would weep if she had a head with eyes that would perform the task, for the lack of means, her shadows compensate by flaring around. Her body language screams ecstatic for her friend just woke up from the dead.

 

He did, in a sense.

 

And like those who have a near death experience, he also wakes up with a slightly different mind-set.

 

Though it’s not _his_ near death experience, for he had plenty of those and they didn’t do much, but someone else.

 

Someone whom he is now determined to find.

 

(Which is easier said than done, seeing how that person is a walking search engine and all the wiki’s combined.)

 

But that minority doesn’t discourage him. He has other ways. They worked before and they will probably work now as well.


	2. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One, guilt ridden, the other.... well, his arguments have flawless logic.

He came to the hospital around seven and remained seated in the hallway ever since. Hours passed and midnight came around the corner and he had yet to move. The clock ticked the night away, evenly yet slow. Moonlight, cold and bright, shone in through the windows, deepening the shadows covering his face.

He felt sick. Utterly sick.

His lips went pale from the force he used to clam them shut and not utter a word to anybody.

His thoughts were in a disarray; too much shit happened in too little time.

Nurses came and went and by now there was a good chance they drugged the informant so he was sleeping now (which would only prolong Shizuo's personal hell, but he wouldn't complain.) Then again, no one told Orihara Izaya what to do. Not even drugs designed to make him sleep.

So, more likely, he was probably wide awake even - especially - at this hour. The blond man swallowed hard to calm his nausea, sighing heavily, before he gathered the strength to get out of the chair.

His own hand seemed ridiculously heavy as he put it on the doorknob, turning it slowly. His heart pounded in his ears, but he ignored it, much like the wave of nausea threatening to leap over him. Well, there goes nothing. He heard the click and stepped in.

"What _the hell_ were you thinking?!"

Mocha eyes, tired, worried, now also _confused_ , stared at the dark burgundy narrowed dangerously at him. The moonlight added that extra glint not making it any easier for Shizuo. 

Izaya, for what was most likey the first time in his life, raised his voice, at _Shizuo_ , of all people on this good earth.

Shizuo finally blinked.

This was _definitely_ not what he expected. But then, when _has_ Izaya ever done something he _did_ expect?

He couldn't turn from the gleaming red in the moonlight - angered, no less. An emotion he knew all too well - an emotion he never, for the life of him, thought possible to see in the always too damn cheerful pest, now in front of him.

The damn flea always messed with him, annoyed all nine hells out of him, taunted and easily avoided anything and everything thrown his way, elegantly evading it and running-

The look in Izaya's eyes softened in annoyed confusion.

"Why are you _crying_?" Izaya asked in a softer voice, confused by the tears just falling freely from those mocha eyes that were never displaying anything but rage and annoyance when his gaze was directed at him.

The heavy feeling in Shizuo's chest became that much heavier, nearly suffocating him.

"Th-the doctor", speaking became such a heavy task to preform, though words were never his fort to begin with, "the doctors said you won't be able to walk again."

He felt even worse after saying it, as if _he_ were the one to pass the last judgement, impossible to mend.

"They also said there was nothing wrong with my head", Izaya replied breezily, as if stating the weather and how inconvenient the rain would be, "so I wouldn't be too quick to believe them."

_Really, Shizu-chan, stop being so stupid._

Shizuo managed a quick bark-y laugh against himself.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He asked, hating himself for laughing, as his face fell once again in that miserable expression.

He had no idea of what to do besides stand there and cry over the same guy he spend a lot of time trying to kill other than think this was all messed up. Thus, him being in a sort of twilight zone, he hadn't seen Izaya stretching his arm towards him as anything out of the ordinary. He came closer, still feeling miserable.

Izaya's hand was somewhat warmer than he thought it would be as the former pulled him to sit on his bed.

Shizuo abandoned every coherent thought of this unfolding of events as he leaned into Izaya's shoulder and Izaya wrapped his right arm around him, taking Shizuo's hand in his free one.

Shizuo shook from held up sobs as he felt Izaya's fingers in his hair and his head lean on top of Shizuo's.

"Hey..." Izaya found himself speaking softly as Shizuo continued to cry hot heavy tears. They stayed like that for a long time, Izaya just waiting for him to cry himself out while playing with his blond strands. The informant closed his eyes.

_Why did he even cry? Stupid Shizu-chan. Never acting like he's supposed to. Vile beast._

"It's fine, Shizu-chan."

His words only made Shizuo cry harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The condition is not permanent, I swear.


	3. A Nightmare Arises

“Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.”

A proverb he never understood. To him, it was pointless and stupid. Who the fuck wants their enemies anywhere around them? That’s the whole point of hating someone, right?

_Wrong._

Hate and enemies do not always coexist. Hate is an emotion; an enemy is something or someone who opposes you or your point of view; therefore ‘hate’ and ‘enemy’ are by no means the same.

A lesson Heiwajima Shizuo will come to learn.

The hard way.

It was the second month since Orihara Izaya vanished from the face of the earth. He became a myth, a story whispered in a dark alleyway, deserted in the wee hours of the night. A whisper in the dark that made lights flicker.

Heiwajima Shizuo would sometimes pass along those deserted dark alleyways, with hearing sharp to catch those whispers. Ever since their last encounter, he just knew something was off.

Orihara Izaya never acts on impulse. That much he knows from spending 8 years trying to get to him. Maybe murder was a better fit.

He flinched, ever so involuntarily, at the thought of that evening.

Orihara Izaya _never_ acts on impulse, and yet, somehow, he just can’t shake the feeling off that he _did just that_.

Then again, he isn’t sure. The thought process of his adversary was never clear to him in the first place. Why spend do much time on plans when you could just hurl things at-never mind.

Like he already concluded, when you spend chasing after someone for 8 years, you just _know_ things, whether he wanted or not.

But he was Heiwajima Shizuo. He prefers to deal with annoyances quickly instead of weaving complicated plots and pulling various strings behind the scene. There were things lurking in the shadows surrounding Ikebukuro his keen instinct picked up on, but he didn’t think about them in his free time.

Yet _another_ mistake on his part.

His alarm clock made no noise in the morning. He didn’t sleep. In fact, he rarely slept these few weeks. A heavy feeling of a thousand eyes directed at his back plagues him, keeps him awake at night. At first, he’s annoyed.

The hell is his problem _now_? Orihara Izaya isn’t there to annoy the shit out of him. He has his peace and quiet, so what could possibly keep him awake at night?

The answer to that also arrives on a later notice, but for now, he is tossing and turning in the dark of his bedroom, giving up on sleep, keeping the lights off and lighting a cigarette in the moonless night.

A long drag at the burning leaves and fuck knows what else and it does – nothing. It just burns through his lungs, dry and clawing, utterly disgusting, he finds.

_Great_ , he thinks in the wee hours of the night, dragging another lungs-full of that disaster of a smoke. Maybe it isn’t him; he tries and fails to give this whole ordeal a meaning. Maybe the tobacco isn’t what it used to be.

Which is _utter bullshit_ and he knows it, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking it. It’s easier to think that way, when he has to think about it.

Though, that doesn’t explain the heaviness of the nights or the eerie feeling creeping up his spine like a spider with too many legs.

Something is _very_ wrong and the person he’d usually pin all this shit to isn’t here.

_Damn that selfish little-_

He exhales deeply, sending all the smoke out of his lungs and stops breathing for a minute or so.

His head somewhat clears and he resumes breathing again.

The cigarette in left on the edge of the ashtray, burning away as the dawn peeks over the horizon.

For now, he tries to sleep.

_But how do you sleep when your sworn enemy took a bullet for you?_

 

_He can still hear the cold laugh, even now._

 

_That person he never even heard of._

 

_“You’re welcome.”_

 

_Is what he says before disappearing in the dark._

 

_And it’s what freezes his blood, alone in the nightmare._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, the "Hell Bent" series.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea plaguing me for a long time, but I have a hard time combining it into one solid story. It mostly comes to me in bits as you will see and I hope you enjoyed it despite the, uh, vagueness? This may be a two or three shot under the Temporary Madness title since there are others to come. See you around.


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